


feel my hand 'round yours

by biblionerd07



Series: broad-shouldered beasts [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Established Relationship, Everybody Loves Mickey, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 00:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10775985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Mickey's never going to win any awards for finding the right words, but he manages to get his point across. (5 important conversations Mickey has with women in his life, +1 with two guys.)





	feel my hand 'round yours

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this right after the other two parts of this series, but it sort of fizzled out and I thought, "Oh, my Mickey feelings have blown over." Then Mickey came back into my head, scowling and telling me to go fuck myself, so here we are.

The first time Mickey goes to the free parenting class at the courthouse, Svetlana goes with him. She sits with her arms crossed the whole time and looks skeptically confused by every word out of the teacher’s mouth. Mickey has no fucking idea what the lady’s saying—he spends the whole time hunched over, listening to the sound of his own breathing and willing his hands to stop shaking.

The next week, Svetlana dodges going with him and Ian agrees to go instead. That’s even worse, because everyone is definitely staring at the homos here for parenting class. And what if the teacher remembers Mickey from last week and realizes he’s with someone else? Does that make him look bad? Should he care if the parenting class lady thinks he’s a shitty father? He _is_ a shitty father, but he doesn’t want her to know that. But, he supposes, she probably doesn’t see very many _great_ fathers coming through here.

The third week, Svetlana and Ian both have to work late. Mickey almost says _fuck it_ and ditches the class, but then he looks at Yevgeny across the dinner table and feels his stomach sink. He almost fucking hit the kid a few weeks ago. He has to drop the kid off with Kev and V and the twins and go.

Sitting there by himself is infinitely worse than sitting with Svetlana snorting at some of the touchy-feely shit the teacher says or even Ian pressing their legs together. But Mickey promised Yevgeny he’d go, and he needs the help. Besides, Terry sure as fuck never went to a parenting class, so this can’t be too terrible of an idea.

But then class ends, and Mickey actually listened, and he has a question that didn’t get answered. He debates what to do. The lady always stays for a few minutes afterward so people can ask her stuff. But Mickey can’t go up there. He doesn’t want to talk to her.

He thinks of Yevgeny and sighs, pulling himself to his feet and approaching her. She spares him half a glance before going back to gathering up her papers.

“I don’t retroactively sign court cards,” she says. “If you think I’m going to sign for all three times you’ve been here, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t have one,” Mickey says.

“Well, I don’t carry extras,” she says, sounding all irritated like Mickey’s a pain in the ass. “It’s your own responsibility to get your card from your case worker.”

“No,” Mickey snaps. He knows he’s a fuckup and he knows it shows, but Jesus, the lady could at least _pretend_ to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m not here because of the court.”

She looks up, eyebrows at her hairline. “You’re not?” She asks. “You’re here…voluntarily?”

Could she _sound_ more surprised? Christ. “Yes,” Mickey says.

“Oh.” She stops digging through her papers and straightens up. “Well, okay. How can I help you?”

Mickey swallows. “I, uh. I have a question.” He can’t look at her while he asks. She’s staring at his knuckle tats and he puts his hands behind his back. “You said, um. Age-appropriate activities for bonding.”

He doesn’t say anything else, so she prompts, “Yes?”

“Well, I don’t know…” He feels like a fucking idiot. This is so stupid. Who the fuck uses the word _bonding_ , anyway? “He’s six,” he blurts, forcing himself to stay right there and not just run away. “My kid. He’s six. And I was—” He’s not telling her he was in prison. That’ll just solidify everything she thought. “I was gone for a long time.”

“Okay,” she says in this soft voice that makes him want to fucking punch her. She doesn’t need to baby him. “What does he like to do?”

Mickey doesn’t have a fucking clue, but it’s not like he can tell her that. “He likes to swing,” he says with a shrug. “And, uh, I read him books.”

“That’s great,” she says, and he can _still_ hear surprise in her voice. She’s probably shocked Mickey can read. “Reading with kids is really important.”

“Yeah, that’s what his teacher said.”

“Well, what about his bike?” The lady suggests. “Have you taken his training wheels off yet? You could teach him to ride.”

Mickey doesn’t even know if Yevgeny _has_ a bike, and _Mickey_ hardly knows how to ride a bike, so that whole plan sounds disastrous, but he just nods.

“Do you have a favorite memory of your father when you were that age?” She asks. Mickey has to hold in a snort. _His sentencing hearing_ , he doesn’t say. He just shakes his head and she nods, looking kind of abashed. Mickey figures she doesn’t get a lot of students with stellar parental examples.

“Just make sure, whatever you do, it’s not going to cause a stress reaction for either of you. If you were gone for a while, you’re probably both already feeling a bit insecure. You’ll want to bond in a way that makes you feel comfortable.”

Something that is _not_ making Mickey feel comfortable is this fucking conversation. All this talk of bonding is making him think of Animal Planet. She’s looking at him with the most earnest expression on her face and he wants to leave _yesterday_.

“Okay,” he says, starting to ease backward.

“Sports are okay as long as you don’t get upset with him if his coordination isn’t great.”

Mickey rolls his eyes a little. Like he gives a fuck if the kid can kick a ball. “Okay,” he repeats to shut her up.

“Art projects are also—”

“Okay!” He cuts her off. Shit, lady, take a hint. “Yeah, thanks.” He turns and practically flees the room.

But the next week, after a terrible attempt at riding one of Liam’s old bikes that left half of Yevgeny’s skin on the pavement and earned Mickey a half-hour screaming lecture from Svetlana, the teacher smiles when she sees Mickey come in.

“You’re back,” she says, and she sounds happy.

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug, because he doesn’t really know what else to say.

“Well, welcome,” she goes on, still smiling at him. Mickey takes a seat, and he glances over both shoulders. No one’s looking at him. The teacher moves on. Mickey relaxes.

 

Mickey starts picking up weekend shifts at the grocery store, since he’s not working at the club anymore. It sucks, because weekends are usually his time to hang out with Ian and Yevgeny and Svetlana. They eat dinner together most every night, but it’s not the same. On weekends they get more time to just hang out, do nothing, shoot the shit.

But he has to work 40 hours for his parole. And besides, he doesn’t feel like he’s pulling his weight. He used to make up for that kind of shit by moving drugs and getting a big payout. That’s not an option anymore.

He gets home from a long Saturday shift and his head is aching from the fluorescent lights and customers’ stupid questions. He’s starting to split his time between stocking and cashiering and while he enjoys the bump in his paycheck, the customer service aspect isn’t something he’s great at.

The house is quiet. Mickey opens the door to…nothing. Usually he can almost hear Yevgeny from outside the front door, but there’s nothing going on inside.

“Hey, where is everyone?” He calls. No answer. His heart speeds up a bit and he tells it to shut the fuck up. So what if his family isn’t here? Doesn’t mean they’re all dead in a ditch somewhere.

He has to take a few deep breaths to clear that mental image.

He pulls out his phone, but he doesn’t have any messages. Now he’s getting a little pissed. How hard would it have been to tell him where they were going?

He hears a noise from the back of the house and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He still has his gun at the small of his back. Terry’s locked up again, sure, but it’s not like Terry’s the only person Mickey has to worry about.

He rounds the corner and sees Svetlana coming out of her bedroom. He breathes out a sigh, half-relieved and half-irritated.

“Where’s Ian and the kid?” He asks.

“The park.” Her voice is all weird like she has a cold.

“You sick?” He asks. She looks at him for a minute, and then she shakes her head. He raises his eyebrows at her and then he notices her eyes look a little puffy. “Were you crying?” He asks incredulously.

“No,” she insists, but she’s not being very convincing.

“Shit, what’s going on?” Mickey asks, his voice going high with panic.

“Is nothing,” she says. She waves a hand. “No big deal.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re crying and it’s no big deal?” She shrugs. “I’ve _never_ seen you cry,” he presses.

“David is gone,” she finally admits. Mickey blinks.

“Where’d he go?” He asks stupidly. She gives him a look and it clicks together. “Wait, what?”

She sighs. “I will make dinner. You sit. You are tired.”

“Hey,” he says. “What the fuck happened? Everything seemed fine yesterday.”

Seemed more than fine, from the way they fucked—loudly—all night long. It’s a good thing Yevgeny sleeps like the dead, because that would’ve brought up some awkward conversations for sure.

Svetlana shrugs. “I told him real reason my father sent me to America.”

“And…he left?” Mickey asks.

“Said he did not want to date whore,” she says softly, not meeting Mickey’s eyes, and Mickey is suddenly blinded with rage. He’s called Svetlana a whore probably at least once a day since he’s known her, both to her face and behind her back, but it’s not like he ever actually thought he had any moral superiority over her.

“He fucking said that?” Mickey demands. She shrugs again, which means yes. “Give me his fucking address,” Mickey says. “I’ll teach him some fucking manners.”

“Does not matter.”

“It does fucking matter,” Mickey shoots back. “You obviously care.”

She looks away. “Is true.”

“Oh, is it?” Mickey asks. He’s pacing, hands clenched into fists. He can’t fucking believe that guy. “When’s the last time you got paid to fuck, huh?”

“I—”

“Christ, not like you even _chose_ it anyway. What else were you supposed to fucking do? Fucking dad fucking _sold_ you.” He’s so mad he’s spitting while he yells, and later, he’ll remember it and be uncomfortable with how much it reminds him of his dad.

“Does not matter,” she repeats.

“Yes, it fucking does!” Mickey bursts out. “He doesn’t get to treat you like shit because he thinks he’s better than you. He’s not! Look at you—come to this country with nothing, don’t even fucking speak English, and you got a good job, you’re feeding the kid, you’re paying the bills. What, he thinks he’s gonna find better than you? Fuck him.”

She’s smiling at him, a little tremulously but a smile either way. “Thank you.”

That pulls him up short. He doesn’t know if Svetlana’s ever thanked him for anything. He’s never done anything to _merit_ her thanks. Mickey’s breathing hard, so pissed he wants to kill something. Preferably that Northside asshole.

“You got nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, echoing words Ian said to him a million years ago. He hadn’t believed it then—still doesn’t have the easiest time believing it now—but he wants her to believe it.

Her jaw tightens and she blinks. “He said he could not marry whore,” she tells him. “He said whore could never meet his mother.”

“Fuck his mother,” Mickey says venomously. “Who wants to meet anyone’s fucking mother, anyway?”

“I am mother,” she points out, shooting for teasing. Mickey snorts.

“Yeah, but you’re not old. You’re one of those, you know, MILFs or whatever.” Svetlana cracks up laughing at him and he flips her off. “You’re welcome,” he sniffs.

“You like grocery store?” Svetlana asks out of nowhere.

“Uh, what?”

“You are working more.”

“Well, I gotta make money,” he says. “Can’t just freeload off you.”

She tilts her head. “You do not freeload. You work and you take care of Yevgeny.”

“Well, I’m supposed to work more,” Mickey says, twitching his shoulders uncomfortably.

“Supposed to?”

He opens his mouth and then closes it. He’s meeting his hour requirements for his parole. They’re not hurting for money; Svetlana was paying all the bills on her own before Mickey got out and could easily keep paying them all now without his help. “Well,” he says slowly. “I thought, uh.” He licks his lips. “I’m not some Mr. fucking Mom.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s—” He cuts himself off, not even sure what he was going to say. Gay? A pussy move? She raises her eyebrows at him.

“Why do you think man should work? Your father had no job,” she points out scornfully. He gives her a dirty look. She knows exactly where these thoughts are coming from. “Work during days and stay with Yevgeny at night and weekend,” she says. “Fine with me.”

Mickey swallows hard. He’d want to. Maybe at least for a while. He can get extra hours during the week to keep his PO happy. He thinks of what his father would say. And then he thinks, _good_. If Terry would hate it, he should do it. Mickey shrugs at Svetlana. “Well, I don’t know,” he says. “We’ll see.”

Neither of them say anything for a second and she still looks sad. He really doesn’t want her to cry. He’s not good with crying.

“Maybe you should try a girl again,” he suggests. “Seems like that went better. Or, you know, don’t date some fucking rich guy who thinks he’s better than everyone else even though he’s shit.”

Next thing he knows, she’s grabbing him in a hug. He tenses up for a minute, because even though he doesn’t necessarily register her as a threat anymore he still wasn’t ready for it, but then he brings his arms up and hugs her back.

“I’m serious,” he tells her. “I’ll fuck that asshole up.”

“I know,” she says.

The door opens and Ian and Yevgeny walk in. “Dad, you’re home!” Yevgeny yells, running up to join their hug.

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Everything okay?” He asks, a little concerned. He knows them both well enough to know a hug probably means someone died. Or someone they wish died didn’t.

“Family hug,” Svetlana declares. Yevgeny laughs. Ian doesn’t move and Mickey rolls his eyes, stomach clenching a little.

“She said _family_ hug,” he says, feeling like a total fucking pussy. Svetlana holds an arm out and Ian huffs before he comes to join them, grinning. It’s the closest they’ll ever to get to some happy family TV moment bullshit.

“David is gone,” Svetlana whispers to Ian. Ian’s head snaps over to look at her, and then he looks over at Mickey, who raises an eyebrow.

“We need to go fuck him up?” Ian asks.

“Yes,” Mickey says, at the same time Svetlana says,

“No.”

Mickey nods and Ian nods back. “Been a while since I’ve kicked some Northside ass,” he says. “Tell me when.”

Svetlana shakes her head, pushing away and muttering in Russian, but there’s a smile pulling at her lips as she listens to Yevgeny chatter about the pigeons who attacked them at the park. When they’re eating dinner, Svetlana pats Mickey’s hand on the tabletop and kisses his cheek before she goes to bed, and Mickey feels like he finally did something right.

 

“Hey, anybody here order a two-dollar whore?” Mickey yells when Mandy gets off the bus. Some fucking grandma clutches her chest and huffs out, _young man!_

Mandy flips him off, but she’s ducking her head and smiling the way she does when she’s embarrassed to be happy. Mickey must be getting soft in his old age, because his heart clenches up in his chest. He grabs his little sister in a tight hug.

“Where’s everyone else?” Mandy asks.

“Oh, thanks,” Mickey scoffs. “Don’t even care I fucking _drove_ all the way out here to pick you up.”

“We’re like four blocks from your house,” Mandy laughs.

“Nah, we moved,” Mickey says. He doesn’t mention they moved after Terry tried to kick the door in, but Mandy knows about that anyway and her eyes cloud for a second. “Anyway, the kid’s all excited to see you. You’re sharing a room with him.”

“He pee at night?” Mandy asks, nose wrinkled.

“No,” Mickey says, offended. Then he pauses. “Well. I don’t think so. Never woke me up crying about it.”

“If he pees on me I’m kicking you out of your bed and sleeping with Ian.”

“Ian would never choose you over me,” Mickey says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Mandy says. “Guess not.”

Mickey swallows hard, blind-sided for a second, and Mandy elbows him. “Fuck, I was kidding. Take it easy. I had a crush on him about a million years ago.”

Mickey shrugs. “He’s not so easy to forget.”

“Oh my God.” Mandy laughs at him, which sucks. His ears are getting all hot the way he hates. “You are so whipped.”

Mickey doesn’t bother denying it. They both know it’s the truth, and part of him kind of likes it. He’d never, _ever_ admit that, not even to Ian, but sometimes he really does like that people know he has a soft spot. It’s one more thing separating him from his father.

Mickey starts heading toward the car. “You’re not gonna carry my bags for me, dick?” Mandy pouts. “You should’ve sent your husband.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Mickey huffs.

“Ghetto married,” Mandy sing-songs.

“Quit it,” Mickey demands. He leaves her with her suitcase and takes off for the car, leaving her behind in retaliation, and she screeches at him. It makes him laugh wildly. Something about his sister always makes Mickey feel about seventeen again, sharing weed and avoiding the rest of their family.

They get to Svetlana’s car with some fair amount of yelling, swearing, and a titty twister that makes Mickey actually scream out loud like a girl. They’re getting dirty looks in the parking lot and it really feels like old times. Mickey tosses Mandy’s bags into the backseat next to Yevgeny’s soccer cleats and a mitten.

“Move to Northside yet?” Mandy asks curiously.

“Course not,” Mickey scoffs. “Svet makes okay money, but not like that. And no Northside apartment’s gonna take in a Russian hooker and her gay baby daddies.”

Mandy cracks up laughing at the image. “We are not Northside people,” she says, toasting with the beer she pulled from the glove compartment.

“Fuck no,” Mickey agrees.

They get stuck in traffic, of course, because this city and its roadways fucking hate Mickey, and Mickey’s starting to feel antsy from being stuck when Mandy looks over at him and says, “You know, I think you should get your GED.”

Mickey groans. “I gotta get this from you too? Come on, there’s no fucking point.”

“Why?” She challenges. “If I can do it, so can you.”

“Yeah, and what are you doing with yours?” Mickey taunts. He immediately wants to bite his own tongue off. He’s trying to be better about fucking _thinking_ before he opens his fat mouth, but he and Mandy have always loved each other with a barbed edge.

Mandy doesn’t say anything, just looks out the window while they coast another three inches. It’s sweltering, the humidity at about a billion percent and the sun beating down. Even with the AC on blast—newly working again, thanks to Mickey—Mickey can feel the back of his neck sweating.

“Sorry,” Mickey finally bites out at the next red light. He’s getting better at apologies. He still can’t look at people when he apologizes, but at least he _says_ it.

“Whatever,” Mandy says, all razor-wire again. Mickey bites at his thumbnail.

“Nah,” he finally makes himself say. “Not whatever. I’m, uh. We’re all proud, you know? Of you.”

He can feel her looking at him but he squints out the dashboard. It’s easier to say shit like this to Yev. He’s just a kid. Mickey doesn’t know _why_ that makes it easier, but it does. Maybe because he looks up at Mickey with those huge fucking Bambi eyes and some kind of nature takes over.

“Your boss talk you into college?” Mickey asks.

Mandy snorts. “There’s no fucking point,” she echoes him. Mickey closes his eyes for a second.

“For you there is,” he says. “You could get an office job or something.” She works in a warehouse stocking shit for rich people buying packages off Amazon. She has health insurance, which is the most respectable thing anyone in their family’s ever been able to say, but still. He wants her in some kind of job where she gets to sit on her ass and file her nails or something.

“I don’t think we’re office people, either,” she says softly.

It makes Mickey mad. Maybe it’s because of the kid now or something, but it makes him mad that no one ever sat Mandy down and told her she could be anything she wanted. Who the fuck was ever pushing her to study and get good grades so she could go to college? The social workers all stopped even trying with them by the time Mandy got to kindergarten.

“You can be anything the fuck you want to,” Mickey says. “You’re good at lots of shit.”

Mandy shakes her head. “You’re really different, you know that?”

Mickey shrugs. He knows he was an asshole when they were younger. He was so fucking _mad_ all the time. At everyone. And scared to hell every minute of every day. Most of his fears have already happened, so he’s relaxed a bit.

Not a _lot_. But some.

“But actually,” Mandy goes on. “Kind of not. You were always better than Colin and Iggy. But it’s like…now you let yourself be nicer.”

Mickey grunts and they sit in silence for a few minutes. “I’m working on it,” he admits. “I don’t want—” He swallows, but he makes himself say it. Mandy understands better than anyone, and she deserves to hear it more than anyone. “I don’t want to ever be anything like Terry.” His voice doesn’t even break. He saves that shit for Ian, because Ian can’t make fun of him for it.

“You’re not,” she promises him. “You never were. You tried real hard when we were kids, but you weren’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mickey says wryly. He’s got the scars to prove it. She snorts, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Mandy twists in her seat with her hand out like they’re making some kind of fucking business deal. “You take the classes for your GED, and I’ll take some college classes.”

“Mandy,” Mickey warns, shaking his head. “No fucking point. I’m a convicted felon. And it ain’t like I got a resume to go putting my GED on anyway. It’s not gonna make any difference in getting me a job.”

She presses her lips together. “Maybe it’s not about getting a job,” she says softly. “Maybe it’s just proving to yourself you’re not a complete fuckup.”

Mickey has to blink and look away. Yeah, his sister knows him right to his core. “Think that ship sailed.”

“I’m gonna get Ian on my side,” she tells him. “You know he’ll agree with me. If nothing else, it’ll get me to go to college like he wants.”

“So you’re just using me to make yourself do it?” Mickey asks.

Mandy shrugs. “Why not?”

Traffic gets moving and Mickey concentrates on driving. They get home and Yev’s out on the sidewalk, bouncing up and down when he sees the car coming. He jumps all over Mandy, giving her hugs and telling her everything she’s missed in the two days since he talked to her on the phone. Mickey watches them, watches how his sister’s face lights up and the way the kid gravitates to her like she’s the whole world. Ian comes sprinting out of the house and pulls Mandy into his arms and makes her squeal like a little girl again, spins her around and makes her giggle with happiness like Mickey’s never been able to do.

He still doesn’t see the point of a fucking piece of paper saying he knows math. He learned math selling drugs and collecting debts. He never cared about some fuckwad buying 87 apples at the grocery store in those stupid math problems at school.

But he’s looking at his sister, so happy and animated, and his stomach aches with all the years she was fucking miserable. He _wants_ her to do the college thing. He knows it means more to her than she’ll admit. She wasn’t just talking about _him_ not wanting to be a fuckup.

That night, when Ian’s giving the kid a bath and Svetlana’s doing the dishes, Mickey’s making sure there are clean sheets on the kid’s bed for Mandy. It feels sort of weird and fancy, even _having_ extra sheets, let alone caring about them, but he likes it. Mandy’s sitting on the floor reading a magazine and showing him different actors to see if he’ll admit he’d bang any of them and not doing a damn thing to help him.

It takes the entire time he’s messing with the sheets, but Mickey finally blurts out, “Take the college classes.”

Mandy stops, partway through telling him who the fuck some pretty boy is who, admittedly, has some lips that look like they’d be pretty great at sucking dick, and narrows her eyes at him.

“I told you the tradeoff,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees, heart hammering. He sniffs and looks away. “Yeah, deal.”

She’s motionless for a second, and then she’s somehow flying up off the floor and careening into his arms, screaming like a fucking banshee.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, spitting out her hair. “Not like I saved the fucking world.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she hisses in his ear. She’s laughing a little. She smacks an obnoxious kiss on his cheek and then leaves him there, gaping like an asshole, and flits down the hall to tell Ian. The two of them probably planned this whole fucking thing. Bastards.

And if Mickey’s kind of smiling about it for the rest of the day and even feels sort of _excited_ when Ian slaps the GED study book down on the bed three nights later, well. Mickey’ll take that secret to his grave.

 

Ian’s at work and Svetlana and the kid are at some play date with a bunch of kids from kindergarten. Mickey’s dozing on the couch and wondering what the fuck happened in his life that having an empty house to himself is a negative instead of the best day. Maybe when he started sharing a house with people he actually likes.

 _Loves_. Whatever.

So when a key scrapes in the lock, it’s not like Mickey’s _eager_. It’s just nice that someone else is going to be home. He sits up, and if it’s Ian he’ll let a smile loose. But he slumps back down when he sees it’s Debbie Gallagher.

Mickey’s gotten used to a non-Ian Gallagher (or two…or three) in the house these days. They all have keys and they sure as fuck use them. The Milkoviches used to all spread out, found their own burrow holes away from each other to stay safe, but the Gallaghers stayed safe by piling on top of each other and holding on for dear life. They’re not used to being apart, and Mickey’s getting used to it. He’s even pretty okay with it, when Lip’s not around.

“Ian ain’t here,” Mickey says, spreading back out on the couch.

“That’s okay,” Debbie says. “I want to show you something.” She comes right over and nudges at Mickey’s legs so he’ll move and make room for her. He squints at her, but he moves. She’s all grown up now or whatever, but he can’t help but think of a freckle-faced kid with loose braids bossing other little kids around when he thinks of little Debbie Gallagher.

“What?” Mickey grouses, like there’s not a part of him that feels kind of warm at the thought that she didn’t just turn and leave when she found out Ian wasn’t there. Besides just getting used to having a bunch of Gallaghers around, Mickey’s also getting used to people wanting _him_ around.

“I was going through our old pictures and I found some I wanted to give you guys. These are the _old_ ones, before we all got our phones and when we used to print pictures out. And don’t worry, I scanned them, so you can keep them.”

“Oh, yeah, I was worried,” Mickey says sarcastically. It’s mostly reflex, and she must know it, because she ignores him.

“I thought Lana would like this one,” Debbie says, showing him the first one. It’s Svetlana and the kid, back in that summer where everything seemed pretty great. When Ian was secretly fucking other guys.

Alright, bad memories. Mickey boxes them up like the therapist told him and focuses on the pictures. Svetlana’s smiling, an actual real smile and not that smirk that he used to think counted as a smile. The kid’s mostly a fat blob, but Mickey feels himself smile almost against his will. Sure, he knows babies are hideous in general, but he can’t help but think _his_ kid was cute.

The next picture is Ian and Yevgeny, with Ian holding a spoonful of baby food in the air. Mickey actually laughs a little. He remembers that day. Ian was making airplane noises to get Yevgeny to open up, and the little asshole had ended up puking up creamed corn all over Ian’s shirt.

The next picture is Ian and Mickey. They’re smiling at each other, and Mickey’s almost embarrassed at how fucking _clear_ the love all over his face is. Jesus, how did anyone not know? How did he think he was fooling anyone for so long? Mickey brushes a finger over Ian’s face. He looked so young. Mickey remembers how things were, knows now the warning signs he should’ve recognized, but this picture lines up more with how he felt at the time—that everything, for once, was going right in his life. That he was _happy_.

“You guys looked young,” Debbie says softly. Mickey huffs.

“You calling me old?”

Debbie arches an eyebrow at him. “You’re like forty.”

Mickey scoffs. “I am not even _thirty._ ”

She laughs at him and flips the picture to the next one. Mickey’s breath catches for a second. It’s _Mickey_ holding the kid. That was so rare, Ian must’ve been hiding around corners to catch him. He barely even started looking at the kid that summer. It took months before he could think about him without needing to puke.

He’s ashamed of it now. He should’ve just sucked it up and dealt with it. Yeah, yeah, shitty things happened. He should’ve been used it to by then. Ian hates when he says shit like that, but Mickey can’t help but think it sometimes.

“Mickey?” Debbie asks in this quiet little voice that reminds him of that freckle-faced kid.

“Yeah.” He’s still staring at Yevgeny’s tiny face. He wonders what Yev’s face looked like in between that baby stage and the little-boy face Mickey’s used to now. Maybe he should ask Svetlana if she has pictures. She must, right?

“You didn’t want Yevgeny at first, right?”

Mickey has to take a minute to absorb that. “Uh, no, not really.” He gestures at the picture of him and Ian. “You know why.” She doesn’t say anything for a second and he tears his eyes away from the pictures. “Why?”

“You didn’t want your baby but kept him. I wanted mine and gave her away.”

Mickey doesn’t have a fucking clue what to say to that. “I didn’t have a fucking choice.”

“Me neither,” Debbie whispers. Mickey swallows hard. Their versions of not having a choice are pretty different.

“Uh, listen,” Mickey says awkwardly. “I didn’t—I mean, I got pretty fucking lucky, you know? I didn’t get a say in any of this shit and my kid turned out great. But, you know…I, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I went to fucking prison, kid. Wasn’t exactly great.”

“I know,” Debbie says, looking at her knees. “Sorry.”

“Don’t gotta be fucking sorry. Got myself there.”

“You didn’t deserve to go for Sammy!”

“Sure fucking didn’t,” Mickey agrees. He’d drug that bitch all over again. “But not like I didn’t do other shit that woulda caught up to me. I’m just saying. Fiona wanted you to finish school. And you _did_. That’s pretty great, huh? High school degree, halfway through college. So, you know, you don’t got your kid. I can’t really say anything about that, ‘cause I, you know, I love mine. Now. But you got opportunities. You’re not tied down.”

“Maybe I _wanted_ to be tied down!” Debbie bursts out. She dashes at her eyes. Mickey’s first thought is that she needs to shut the fuck up, but it’s more of a half-hearted knee-jerk reaction to that tight-chest feeling he’s getting than a real emotion.

“Look. I know you see me and think my life’s all great now. And I ain’t gonna lie—it is. Better than I ever thought I’d get. Better than I deserve, that’s for goddamn sure. But I didn’t have no Fiona making sure I got as good as the world could give me, alright?”

Debbie swipes at her eyes. “I know. I don’t really blame Fiona anymore. I was so angry at first, but I know she did the right thing. And the baby went to people who could buy her stuff.” She hiccups. “Probably an EZ-Bake Oven.”

Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck that is, so he just shrugs. “Yeah, probably.” Debbie’s trying to get herself together, and Mickey shifts uncomfortably. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be sad or whatever. You know, it’s, uh…it’s hard.”

Debbie lets out a wet chuckle. “Mickey, you’re getting pretty nice in your old age.”

He elbows her. “Ay, shut the fuck up.” He hesitates for a second, but he makes himself put an arm around her shoulder. He’s done it to Mandy. Debbie’s kind of like his sister. He shies away from the thought just about the second it enters his head, but he leaves his arm where it is. She leans her head against his shoulder, and he doesn’t even jerk away.

It’s nice, actually. They watch TV for a little bit and Mickey starts to feel a little weird about his arm around her shoulders, but she shifts away before he starts to get too antsy. And then they just sit there. They don’t talk, they just watch TV in silence. It’s not weird, though. It’s not sad or scared silence, like Mickey grew up with. It’s the kind of silence he has with Ian sometimes. When Ian ever shuts the fuck up. (When Ian isn’t silent because he’s staring blankly at the wall.)

And when Svetlana and the kid come in and Mickey watches the way Debbie lights up at the kid and the kid lights up right back, he thinks—alright. That’s not so bad.

 

Mickey’s halfway under Fiona’s car, wondering just what the fuck she did to make it sound like a dying animal, when someone kicks at his feet. He scrambles out from under there so fast he scrapes his elbow on the blacktop, but he lets his head fall back when he sees it’s just Fiona.

“Shit, sorry,” she apologizes. “I shouldn’t have come outta nowhere like that.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, trying to take deep breaths and get himself under control. The prison counselor said it was normal to be jumpy after being inside. Mickey had snorted and hadn’t mentioned he’d learned to be jumpy by the time he was four and his dad was back for the second time.

“Just wanted to see how it’s going,” Fiona says. She still sounds sheepish. She holds out a glass to him. “Want some lemonade?”

“Lemonade?” Mickey asks.

“Trust me,” she says. He takes a swig and huffs. First off, it’s orange soda, so he doesn’t know why she bothered saying it was lemonade. More importantly, it’s orange soda with a healthy swig of vodka thrown in.

“Now this is what kids should be selling on the corner, least in this neighborhood,” Mickey says. Fiona laughs and sits down on the curb. It’s a Sunday afternoon, August and hot as fuck in the middle of the day. She’s not wearing any makeup and she’s barefoot. She’s got that tired-eyed look all the women around here have, fighting too hard to do too much with too little. It never used to bother him before—that was what happened. Chicks got old and wrinkly. When he was seventeen getting old and wrinkly at thirty didn’t seem weird.

“You doing alright?” He blurts out.

She tilts her head and squints one eye at him. “Who are you?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

She smiles at him and nudges him with her arm. “I’m good. Things are good these days.”

“Yeah?” He asks. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. He’s quit, mostly, and he never smokes around the kid. But something about working on cars makes him want to smoke. “Same here.”

Her smile gets a little sad around the edges. “Even days like today?”

Mickey exhales a big puff of smoke. He’d left Ian sitting on the couch in his boxers, eyes mostly blank. Mickey wasn’t sure whether to leave the kid—hopefully the meds will keep Ian from doing anything, but he might just want to be left alone. Mickey asked the kid if he wanted to come help work on the car, and he knew Yevgeny was torn. But in the end he’d loyally decided to stay at Ian’s side, and Ian had managed a tiny smile and let the kid slip under his arm.

“Least he got out of bed,” Mickey points out. “Ate some toast, smiled at the kid.” He shrugs. “Coulda been worse.”

Fiona’s smile is getting all shaky and Mickey’s not so sure he can take it if she starts crying, especially not today. Ian’s low days aren’t exactly a picnic for Mickey, either. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says softly.

Mickey shrugs again, clicks his lighter a few times even though it’s wasting the gas or whatever the fuck it is inside. He doesn’t use it that much anymore. “What choice do I got?”

“Not everyone would stick around.”

Mickey finishes his cigarette quietly, gathering his thoughts. “Hey, all the shit we’ve been through, what’s a few days in bed here and there?”

Fiona snorts and he tips his head, conceding. Yeah, obviously it’s not just a few days in bed here and there. But for fuck’s sake, what’s he _supposed_ to say? That the thought of being without Ian makes his heart jump out of his chest? That even thinking about losing Ian makes him panic? That sometimes he still wakes up in a cold sweat because he dreams about Ian in that hospital? He can’t say that shit, not to her. He doesn’t even tell Ian that.

“I’m glad he’s got you looking after him,” Fiona says softly, looking away. “I didn’t do a good job. I didn’t even notice what was going on and I saw it all with Monica.”

“He ain’t Monica,” Mickey reminds her sharply. He bites his lip. “And anyway, you had a lot of shit going on when all that was happening. You came through for him.” She doesn’t say anything, and he swallows hard. “You came through for all of ‘em, you know? Wish I had someone kicking my ass back into school every day.”

“Be happy to do it now if that’s what it takes,” she says pointedly. “Noticed my GED book disappeared.”

“Just doing it to make Ian and Mandy happy,” Mickey lies reflexively. “Not like I’ll actually pass anyway.”

“Sure you will,” she argues, sounding offended. On his behalf? It gives Mickey a weird squirmy feeling. Good weird, though. Maybe.

“What the fuck’s it even matter?” He asks, not quite managing to hide his bitterness. “Never gonna do anything but stock shelves and bag groceries. If I’m lucky they’ll let me carry some old lady’s bags out to her car and she’ll give me a quarter.”

Fiona nods toward her car. “Could work in a garage somewhere.”

“Oh, yeah, some rich dude in a suit would love to hear I learned how to handle a starter when I was seven and needed to boost a getaway car. Or hey, if he doesn’t like that answer, I could always say I learned it in the joint when I was away for attempted murder.”

Fiona grimaces. “Ugh. That bitch. Wish it would’ve been actual murder.”

“Wow, thanks,” Mickey says, laughing. “My ass’d still be rotting in a cell but at least you wouldn’t have to deal with her, huh?”

Fiona laughs too. “Gotta look out for number one, kid.”

“ _Kid_?” He echoes, elbowing her. “Come on.”

She laughs at him and quiets down, leaning into his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch. It’s nice. He’s getting better at people touching him. The kid does a lot to help with that, because he’s always leaning on Mickey and wanting to hold his hand and falling asleep on his shoulder. Sometimes it still gets under Mickey’s skin, because he can’t always be penned down like that, but mostly he’s getting to like it.

“I got a list of companies that’ll hire felons. You should look,” Fiona tells him, raising her eyebrows.

Mickey blows out a breath. “Can you just let it go?”

She narrows her eyes. “For now,” she acquiesces. He rolls his eyes, but he knows that’s the best he’s going to get out of a Gallagher. She smiles at him, a smile that makes his throat tighten up because he’s seen her look at Ian like that, at Lip, at Debbie.

“You’re a good man, Milkovich.”

Mickey snorts. “Shit, that’s gotta be the first time _anyone_ ’s said that sentence.”

“Alright, fine,” she says. “You’re a good man, _Mickey_.”

“Like that’s better,” he mutters, suddenly struck by the weight of it. Who the fuck’s ever thought he was a good person? Ian’s probably the only one, and Ian just thinks the best of everyone. Maybe the kid, since he doesn’t know any better. Mickey’s got a fucking court order telling him he’s not a good person, a rap sheet detailing all the shit he’s done.

He never really cared, before. All he cared about was surviving and getting some, and taking care of Ian, eventually. He didn’t give a shit about philosophy or anything like that. Morality? What the fuck would a piece of shit like him care about morality?

Fiona wraps her arm around his shoulders. “I don’t care if no one’s ever said it before,” she whispers in his ear. “I’m gonna be saying it a lot from now on.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, shoving her arm away. “I don’t need that.” His chest’s getting all tight like it does sometimes, when he’s on the verge of freaking out, when someone’s too close or talking about shit he doesn’t want to think about.

Fiona’s not just some shrinking violet who’s gonna take that shit, though. For all her good intentions and dreams, she’s still Southside, and that means she shoves him right back and sticks a finger in his face.

“I don’t give a fuck what you think you need,” she tells him. “You’re family and I’m gonna tell you I love you as much as I have to.”

“Jesus,” Mickey breathes. _I love you_ isn’t such a common phrase in his vernacular. He says it to the kid probably once a month, maybe. He’s only said it to Ian four times ever. He doesn’t remember _anyone_ ever saying it to him until the kid did, tossed it out like Fiona just did, like it’s not a foreign phrase.

“Sorry for ambushing you,” Fiona says, not sounding sorry at all.

“Sure you are.” Mickey rolls his eyes. “What is it with you Gallaghers? Always gotta talk about fucking feelings.”

“You spent five seconds around Frank?” Fiona asks wryly. “Doesn’t shut the fuck up.”

Mickey huffs. “Any excuse to blame Frank’s a good one.”

“Hear, hear,” Fiona says, grabbing his empty glass and raising it. “Fuck, you drank it all already?”

“Already?” He echoes. “Kidding me? It’s been like ten minutes. Took me three swallows.”

He finishes up her car, as best he can do anything to a car that’s older than any of them, and she gives him a kiss on the cheek before he leaves. She doesn’t say she loves him again anytime soon after that, thank God, but she starts giving him little hugs every time she sees him. Eventually, he starts looking forward to it. It’s weird, and he’d never admit it or name it, but he thinks it’s possible he loves her too.

 

Mickey frowns when he opens the door to an empty couch. He was only gone for two hours; he didn’t expect Ian and Yevgeny to move. He doesn’t know where Svetlana is. It’s probably a good sign that she trusts Ian enough to leave Yevgeny alone with him, even on a low day, but it unsettles Mickey. He fucking hates that it does, but he can’t help it. Not just because he watched Ian drive away with Yevgeny once before—he knows Ian won’t do that again, and on a low day he ain’t driving anywhere—but what if Ian hurts himself and Yevgeny sees?

Mickey has to stop and close his eyes for a second, breathe out harshly against the mental image of Ian doing anything to himself. Mickey read everything on the fucking internet about bipolar disorder when Ian got diagnosed. He knows the stats. Doesn’t mean he wants to think about them.

He can hear Yevgeny crashing around in his room, probably playing with his dinosaurs if the screaming and roaring is any indication. He peeks his head in to see a T-Rex trampling a mini-van.

“Hey, kid,” he says.

“Hi, Dad,” Yevgeny answers distractedly.

“You having fun?”

“Uh huh.” He jumps up to swap the mini-van for a dump truck.

“Ian in our room?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says, finally looking up. “He’s sad today.”

Mickey licks his lips. “Yeah, he is. You remember what he told you before?”

Ian had, of course, sat down with Yevgeny and explained everything, as well as he could. Mickey had paced and smoked and swore under his breath and got teary-eyed, because he’s useless in most conversations generally but especially conversations about feelings or health or anything involving Ian not being completely and totally okay at all times.

“It’s not my fault,” the kid parrots obediently.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Not your fault.” _Not mine either_ , he reminds himself. Ian’s all big into that positive self-talk bullshit. So far it’s not doing it for Mickey.

“We ate Pop Tarts for lunch,” Yevgeny reports.

“Cool.” He doubts Ian actually ate, but at least he fed the kid. Svetlana won’t be thrilled about the Pop Tart thing, but she’s the one who keeps buying them and she ain’t here. “I’m gonna go in my room and talk to Ian, alright?”

“Okay, Dad,” Yevgeny says, already back to his toys. Mickey snorts. The kid sure got over him fast.

He has to pause for a second outside his room, take a deep breath and get ready. It’s hard seeing Ian just lying there. Brings back a lot of memories he’d like to forget. But he steels himself and opens the door.

Ian’s sitting up against the wall, not reading or on his phone or anything, staring into space. Mickey swallows hard. Well, at least he doesn’t have to see Ian just lying there.

“Hey,” Mickey says warily. He’s been snapped at before. All the books he reads hunched over in a corner in the bookstore where no one can see him tell him not to take it personally, but it’s not like that’s easy to do. Ian looks over at him.

“Hi,” he answers. His lips tick upward and Mickey’s so relieved he could cry. He kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the bed beside Ian. His clothes are filthy and he’s getting the sheets dirty, but he doesn’t give a fuck. If Ian’s going to respond to him, he’s running with it.

“How’s your day?” He asks, rubbing a hand over Ian’s knee. It’s a stupid question, but he has to say something.

“Better now that you’re home,” Ian says.

Mickey snorts. “Okay, corn ball.” Not like he can wipe the smile off his face, though. That’s the kind of dumb shit Ian says all the time. Today doesn’t seem so low after all. “Whatcha do all day?”

It was obviously the wrong fucking thing to say, because Ian’s face drops. “Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t do a fucking thing.”

“Hey,” Mickey says, a little confused and a lot desperate. Ian was smiling a literal _second_ ago, and now he’s got tears in his eyes. “Who the fuck cares? It’s your day off.”

“I gave Yev Pop Tarts for lunch because I couldn’t make him anything,” Ian confesses. “I didn’t even toast them.”

Later, part of Mickey’ll think it’s kind of funny how absolutely _miserable_ Ian sounds over the idea of making the kid eat untoasted Pop Tarts. As if a six-year-old cares if his sugar is hot or cold. But just now, with Ian’s voice all choked and his breath hitching, it’s the least funny thing Mickey’s ever heard.

“You fed him,” Mickey points out. “Watched TV with him for a while, huh? Come on, that’s fucking progress.”

“I hate this, Mick,” Ian says, swiping a hand across his running nose. “I hate this so fucking much. I’m useless.”

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. He tentatively pulls Ian closer, bracing himself for Ian pushing him away or getting pissed, but Ian sags into him and presses his face into Mickey’s neck. “Come here, it’s alright,” Mickey says, tugging Ian halfway into his lap.

“Dad?” Of fucking course Yevgeny came out of nowhere to witness this. No telling how much he heard, but he’s definitely watching Ian cry into Mickey’s shoulder. Ian shudders a little, and now he’s going to be mad at himself and guilty as hell. Mickey runs a hand through Ian’s hair and looks up at the kid.

“It’s alright, kid,” Mickey promises. “Ian’s just having a hard day.”

Yevgeny comes closer, eyes wide, and stands at the edge of the bed. “Ian?” He whispers. Ian clings tighter to Mickey and doesn’t respond.

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Listen. Right now Ian feels really sad. And he feels bad about feeling sad. But you know what?”

“What?” Yevgeny asks. He’s biting his lip the same way Mickey does when he’s worried. Christ, but it’s weird to see shit like that sometimes.

“Ian’s gonna feel better in a few days. He’s got medicine that helps him and if he needs to, he’ll go see the doctor.” He kind of jostles Ian at that, because it’s a hint to him more than an explanation for the kid. “It’s all gonna be fine.”

“Okay, Dad,” Yevgeny whispers. “Ian?” He tries again.

“I’m sorry,” Ian chokes out. “Sorry, Yev.”

Yevgeny looks at Mickey. “Why’s he sorry?”

“Told ya, he feels bad about being sad. It’s not his fault but sometimes people feel bad about shit they shouldn’t.”

“Oh.” Yevgeny stretches out a hand and presses one finger delicately into Ian’s arm. Ian doesn’t respond.

“But we’re not mad at him for being sad,” Mickey goes on. “We just want him to feel better.”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny agrees. “And play with us.”

“When he feels better,” Mickey reminds his son sternly.

“Yeah, that’s what I _meant_ ,” Yevgeny shoots back, prickly over Mickey doubting him. It almost makes Mickey smile.

“And even when Ian’s sad,” Mickey says softly, tilting his head a little so he’s talking almost directly into Ian’s ear. There is absolutely no fucking reason for him to feel _nervous_ about what he’s going to say, but his heart’s pounding all the same. “We still want him here. ‘Cause we…uh, ‘cause we love him. All the time. And life would suck without him here. Life already did suck without him for a while.”

“I don’t want Ian to go anywhere,” Yevgeny cuts in, distressed.

“He won’t,” Mickey promises. “Well, you know, he’s got work and shit. But he’s always gonna come back. Right?” He pushes Ian. He probably shouldn’t; he already knows Ian’s low, and feeling guilty, and hating everything right now. But he doesn’t know if the kid’s going to take his word for it. Why the fuck should he trust Mickey to be making promises?

“Right?” Yevgeny echoes.

Mickey feels Ian breathe out harshly against his neck. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods. It’s enough for Mickey, and the kid must see it because he settles down a bit. “Good,” Mickey murmurs, pressing a kiss against Ian’s temple. “And we’re always gonna be here for Ian.”

“Yeah!” Yevgeny agrees, feeling bolder now and putting his little hand on Ian’s back. “I love you, Ian.”

Mickey can feel tears against his neck and it’s making his own throat tight. “He’s not feeling good right now,” he reminds Yevgeny. “So he can’t talk much. Alright? But he loves you. A lot.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“And…” Mickey bites his lip. “And I do too. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Yevgeny stays where he is. It’s making Mickey antsy. Ian’s not going to let himself break down fully with Yevgeny there, but if he tries to hold it in he’s going to feel even worse.

“You know where your mom is?” Mickey asks.

“She went to the store,” Yevgeny reports. Fuck, that could mean anything. Svetlana uses going to the store as an excuse for going out a lot of times. But Mickey finally catches a goddamn break, because the door opens right on cue.

“Hello!” Svetlana calls out.

“Go help your mom with the stuff,” Mickey says. Yevgeny casts another worried glance at Ian’s still form. “Go,” Mickey repeats. “You can come check on Ian later, okay?”

“Okay,” the kid says reluctantly. “Bye.”

He even remembers to close the door after him, which is some kind of fucking miracle. Mickey kisses Ian’s temple again and tells him, “Kid’s gone, okay? Don’t worry about it.”

Ian’s crying, which is the number one thing Mickey hates worst in the world. Even before his own father and cops who get rough during an arrest. Mickey knows technically there’s nothing he can do, but he always hates just fucking sitting here and doing nothing.

“I mean it, alright?” He tells Ian. “I’m never going anywhere. I’m sticking around.”

“Proved that a long time ago, Mick,” Ian reminds him wetly.

“Yeah, well, just making sure you know.” Ian doesn’t respond except to fist his hand in the back of Mickey’s shirt. This probably isn’t like, the _ideal time_ for Heartfelt Declaration of Love #5, but Mickey doesn’t think he’ll ever think anything is the ideal time. He deliberates for a second, chewing at his lip, but he makes himself say it. It’s not like there’s a fucking question about it. It’s just hard to get the words out.

“I love you, Ian. You know that? I really fucking do.”

Ian nods again. He doesn’t say it back, which sucks because it reminds Mickey of the other time he said it and Ian didn’t say it back, but he forces that memory away. Their whole fucking lives have changed. They’re here now and Ian’s said it back twice. It’s Mickey’s own damn fault for saying it on a low day when Ian feels like shit. If he couldn’t say it back to the kid, he sure as shit won’t be able to say it back to Mickey.

But it’s actually okay. Not _okay_ -okay, but not as bad as it could be. Ian’s holding onto Mickey for dear life and that means he’s still here. In a few days Ian _will_ feel better and he’ll kiss Mickey and smile a real smile and squeeze Mickey’s knee under the table at breakfast. They’ll go on, working and talking and fighting and fucking and laughing, and Ian won’t leave this time. Ian’s not leaving and neither is Mickey. They’re in this together now.

They’ll keep on living their life. And that’s all Mickey ever wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> I will admit to having not watched most of season 6 or 7, so there are some things AU, like Debbie giving her baby up for adoption.


End file.
